


trying to listen in

by biblionerd07



Series: broad-shouldered beasts [11]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Father Figures, Gen, Healing, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, POV Outsider, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, parole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 13:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: If someone had told Doug Hawkins a year ago his favorite, most promising parolee was going to be a Milkovich, he would've laughed in their face. But it doesn't take long for him to realize there's something different about Mickey.





	trying to listen in

**Author's Note:**

> So remember how I said I had another part that felt like an epilogue and then I was going to take a break? That was a lie lmao. This is not that part that I was talking about. This is 16k of Mickey feels through the eyes of his parole officer. And then I have TWO MORE parts 90% written and THEN I will take a break. Probably,

Doug Hawkins has been a parole officer for thirty-five years by the time Mickey Milkovich’s file crosses his desk. He sighs a little when he sees the name. Another one. He’s lost track over the years, but he’s been PO to at least six different Milkoviches. He knows Terry is Mickey’s father; some of the others were brothers and uncles and maybe Mickey’s mom or maybe an aunt, but Doug doesn’t know how to untangle that family tree and he doesn’t really care. He looks at the file. Twenty-three years old, a string of juvenile drug and assault offenses, didn’t finish high school and never did the GED program inside, sentenced to eight years for unlawful restraint and attempted murder. Doug’s only surprise is that Milkovich didn’t finish the job.

Two weeks later, Doug looks across his desk at the scrawny, scarred-up _kid_ in front of him and remembers, suddenly, that he’s seen Mickey Milkovich before. It was at some hearing Terry had; he’d broken parole and gotten caught with drugs while doing it, so it was a double-whammy. He was going back to prison even if he got off the drug conviction, but everyone knew he wasn’t getting off from the drug conviction. At that point, Doug had been more than fed up with Terry, and he’d advised the judge to throw the book at him. Terry was drunk in the hearing and eloquently told the judge he didn’t give a fuck what happened.

The judge let him say goodbye to the various kids scattered throughout the courtroom, though no one involved seemed all that thrilled about it. His youngest was a girl, and Doug had felt a shiver down his spine at the way she held herself carefully away from her father, standing behind a brother who was hardly taller than she was—Mickey, he knows now. Mickey had been stocky back then; short, like he is now, but stouter, even though he had that look in his eyes that Doug knew meant he was used to going without meals more often than not. All the kids were dirty and the matching patterns of bruises on their faces made Doug’s blood boil. At that point, he had two little grandkids, and he became a parole officer to keep men like that away from their kids.

What had stuck out most to Doug, though, was the way Terry sneered at this kid. Mickey couldn’t have been more than twelve at that point, but there was pure hatred on Terry’s face when he talked to him, hatred that wasn’t there when he talked to his other sons. Terry had squeezed Mickey’s wrist, hissing something angrily into his face, and gave him a little shake that didn’t look too bad from far away but Doug was willing to bet left the kid’s teeth rattling together. Terry pushed away from him disgustedly and Mickey had looked up then, noticed Doug watching.

For a split second, Doug had seen the naked terror in that little boy’s face. He looked scared and lost and he had a split lip. His eyes looked shiny, like he was on the verge of tears. Doug doesn’t know what his face did in that second, but he _saw_ the transformation come over the kid. Mickey had sniffed and curled his lip into a sneer, a pup following his father’s lead, and then spat on the ground at Doug’s feet as the brood filed out.

“Think we should get CPS involved?” Doug had asked his coworker, Dawson. Dawson followed Doug’s eyeline to the Milkovich kids and snorted.

“Why bother?” He asked. “No foster parents will keep them and they’ll get kicked out of any group home we try to stick them in.” He shook his head. “Give ‘em five years, they’ll all be dead or in jail.”

Now, Doug’s looking at Mickey again. Dawson had been right—Mickey’s certainly not the first of Terry Milkovich’s kids to end up here. And from the scar on his face, it looks like he almost went the other way, too. He hasn’t been released yet, because paperwork takes time, but Doug’s supposed to explain everything to him ahead of time.

“You’re going to be on parole for two years,” Doug explains. “That means staying in the state of Illinois, reporting for your mandatory check-ins, holding down a job, random drug testing, all that. For two years.”

Mickey just looks at him for a second. Then he says, sounding annoyed, “Yeah, I know the fucking drill.”

“Language,” the bailiff cuts in. Mickey rolls his eyes, but at least he doesn’t talk back.

_I bet you do_ , Doug thinks. “You get out next week. You know where you’re going to live yet?”

Mickey sighs. “My ex-wife’s letting me stay there.”

Doug raises his eyebrows. “You’re twenty-three and you’ve already got an ex-wife?” Mickey shrugs. Doug waits, but Mickey doesn’t offer any additional information. He’s like talking to a brick wall. Doug knows the Milkovich clan doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being geniuses, but Jesus. “Okay, well, you probably know you’re supposed to stay away from your victim and other felons you’ve been associated with in the past.” He can’t help but add, “Your dad was never too good at that part.”

“Wasn’t good at any of the parts,” Mickey mutters. Doug didn’t miss the way he twitched when Doug mentioned Terry.

“Your dad’s inside right now,” Doug says, almost fascinated by the way Mickey’s shoulders relax a fraction at that news. That other Milkovich kid, Colin—he didn’t seem as scared of Terry. Doug flashes back to the hateful sneer on Terry’s face and wonders what the difference there is.

“Not a real shocker,” Mickey says, looking bored.

“You’re gonna be out there in the great, big world,” Doug says, and he’s being more sarcastic than he should on the job but he can’t help it. “You got a good support system?”

“No,” Mickey says. Doug feels his eyes widen a little against his will. He wasn’t expecting that. Though he probably should’ve; Terry was always up front about how much he didn’t buy into the reentering society rigamarole. The word recidivism should have a picture of the Milkovich family next to it in the dictionary. Mickey shrugs at him. “We done here? I get it. Don’t do drugs, get a job, pee in cups, yadda yadda.”

“You make sure you tell me if anything changes,” Doug says. “You move, you switch jobs, whatever. You have to tell me.”

“Okay, Jesus,” Mickey says, irritated. “I get it. You’re gonna be riding my ass.”

Doug doesn’t even bother hiding his eye roll. He fucking hates the Milkovich family. This is going to be one of his last new parolees before retirement and he gets stuck with this fucking kid. He nods at the bailiff to let him out and rubs his eyes. His only consolation is the fact that there’s no way Mickey Milkovich is making it two years without violating parole, so maybe Doug won’t have to deal with him too long and can finally get his pension. Doug can dream, at least.

 

Mickey’s late for his first scheduled appointment. Doug would laugh if he weren’t so mad about getting stuck with another Milkovich. He _told_ Lewisham he didn’t want any more of them, especially right before retirement. He’s too old to deal with this bullshit. Terry’s the worst of the bunch, and Doug’s pretty sure he should get some kind of bonus for dealing with him as long as he has.

Doug’s marking it down in his notes, about to call a black and white to go pick Mickey up, when someone starts banging on the door. It’s past 6 pm, so they’re all locked up. Doug scoffs, because he just _knows_ it’s Mickey. And sure enough, when Doug gets up and goes to the door, there’s Mickey, out of breath.

“You’re two hours late,” Doug points out flatly.

“I had to wait for my ex-wife to get off work,” Mickey says. He’s not even apologetic, and it pisses Doug off. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

“We’re closed.”

“Ay, come on. I fucking ran all the way here.”

“Two hours late,” Doug repeats.

“What was I supposed to do?” Mickey demands. “I wasn’t going to bring the kid with me.”

That does give Doug pause. “You got a kid?”

Mickey sighs and shoves a hand through his messy hair. “She says he’s mine. Not like we did a fucking DNA test or anything.”

“How old?” Doug asks.

“I don’t fucking know. Six, I guess.”

“You even meet him before you went inside?” Doug asks incredulously. That means Mickey had the kid before he was even eighteen. It’s not like that’s exactly shocking around here, but Doug is surprised he apparently married the girl. Sure, they got divorced, but that’s not surprising, either.

“Fuck off,” Mickey mutters. “What, you sending me back now? I’m late one time and that’s it?”

Doug’s on the verge of saying yes. Mickey hasn’t even apologized for being late. He’s sullen and rude and swears in just about every sentence. But Doug remembers the terror on that kid’s face, the way Terry shook him and the tremble in his lips. He’s looking at Mickey now and sees the way his hands are clenched; not like he’s going to fight but like he’s trying to hang onto something. He’s half-turned away from Doug, shaking his head like he already knows he’s in trouble, and for some reason Doug can’t do it. It doesn’t make sense; this is a Milkovich, and Doug knows this isn’t going to be the last time he’s late. Doug might as well kick his ass back to prison now and save himself some work. But he hears himself say,

“Come on, let’s test your piss.”

Mickey looks up at him fast, surprised, and Doug steps back so he has room to come inside. He can’t help but notice the way Mickey flinches away when their shoulders brush. He passes the drug screen, and Doug would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little surprised. He notices how loose Mickey’s clothes are; he didn’t even have to unbutton his pants to pull them down to pee.

“You lose a lot of weight inside?” Doug asks curiously.

Mickey looks wary. He shrugs. “Didn’t eat much.”

Doug can feel his eyebrows going up. “Guys stop you?”

Mickey’s whole face closes off. He brushes his thumb over his bottom lip and says casually, “Didn’t like the food.”

It would be an okay lie if Doug hadn’t been working with felons longer than Mickey’s been alive. He knows no one loses that much weight just because they don’t like the food. But he also knows Mickey’s not going to give him anything, so he lets it go. He leads Mickey down the hallway into his office so they can talk and he can write notes.

“You got a job?” He asks, marking down Mickey’s successful drug test.

“Yeah, fucking stocking shelves,” Mickey says. He slouches down in his seat. “It’s not forty hours, though.”

“So what are you going to do to get to forty?” Doug asks.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Mickey asks. “I’m a fucking felon.”

“Without a high school diploma,” Doug reminds him. “Have you thought about getting your GED?”

Mickey scoffs. “Why, so I can look at it?”

“You might be able to get a better job,” Doug starts.

“On parole? For attempted murder?”

Doug doesn’t have an answer for that. Mickey looks almost smug. “Well, okay,” Doug says. “Then I guess you better find another place to hire you.”

Mickey groans. “Hard enough finding one place.”

“Forty hours, Milkovich.”

Mickey twitches a little at the sound of his last name. “Fine. Whatever. We done here?”

“Hang on,” Doug says. “How you doing?”

Mickey laughs out loud. It’s not a good sound; there’s no happiness in it whatsoever. “Oh, real fucking great,” he says sarcastically.

“What’s wrong?” Doug asks.

“I got no—” Mickey breaks off, biting his lip. He just shrugs. “Just got out of prison,” he says instead of whatever he’d started to say.

“Got no what?” Doug presses.

“That’s not part of my parole,” Mickey snaps. “Last I checked, I don’t gotta talk to you about my fucking feelings, huh? I passed the piss test and I’ll get another job, okay, so can I go?”

Doug taps his fingers on his desk for a minute, just looking at Mickey. Mickey cuts his eyes to the side, breathing harshly. He’s edgy. Doug wonders if he’s coming down from something. There’s plenty of supply inside for him to be in withdrawal right now. But he doesn’t look like he’s jonesing. He’s not sweating and his eyes don’t have that hollow look Doug sees too often. He’s obviously got something going on. But he’s also obviously not looking to talk about it. Doug sighs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll see you next month, unless I do a random stop and see you sooner.”

“Can’t wait,” Mickey mutters sarcastically. He leaves without so much as a backward glance.

“You’re welcome,” Doug says to the empty office. He huffs. Then he grabs Mickey’s file and flips through to look for disciplinary actions while he was in prison. He wasn’t exactly a model prisoner, but he either kept his nose mostly clean or did a damn good job of not getting caught. Had to, to get the early release.

There’s a note about an altercation with a guy in the cafeteria—a shiv. Mickey was in the infirmary for two days. Twenty-two stitches in his face, a concussion, and two bruised ribs. As far as the guards could tell, the other guy started it, but Mickey sure as hell ended it. He broke the guy’s nose, collarbone, wrist, and three fingers. The warden ruled it self-defense and Mickey didn’t get solitary. That must be where he got that scar on his face.

There are notes about a slew of other run-ins. They all involve the laundry room or the showers, but a few happened in the cafeteria or the hallway leading to it, so Doug’s pretty sure he’s right about why Mickey didn’t eat. All self-defense on Mickey’s part. All almost shockingly violent, even for what Doug’s used to. Ambushes, shivs, groups jumping him. Mickey probably spent an entire year of his sentence in the infirmary, spread over a few days here and there. One note suggests moving Mickey to solitary for his own protection after the third time he was found on the ground without fighting back, but it doesn’t look like it ever happened. Doug can’t see anything pointing to a reason for all the attacks. Not that there always has to be one, but usually these things spring up over territory or gang affiliation. Doug hasn’t seen any obvious gang tats on Mickey, and the notes don’t mention him having many known associates.

The not fighting back thing bothers him. Doug’s pretty familiar with Milkoviches. They always fight back. It’s rare enough that one kept getting jumped like that, and that he didn’t join any gangs or have anyone watching his back. Mickey doesn’t seem to fit the M.O.

Doug taps out an email to the warden, just wanting to know if anyone over there has any ideas about the whys, but he doesn’t expect an answer any time soon. A parole officer’s pretty low on the warden’s food chain. Then he packs up and heads home, ready to shake off felons for the night.

 

Mickey’s late the next month too, but he’s at least consistent with showing up at the same time, and Doug can appreciate him not wanting to bring his kid with him. He’s passed every random test, too, and the house he lives in with his ex-wife isn’t necessarily _nice_ , but it’s not a flop, either. He seems like he’s trying. Doug doesn’t mind cutting him some slack as long as that holds up.

“Where’s your second job?” Doug asks. Mickey mumbles out the name of a bar and Doug raises his eyebrows. “You’re bartending?”

“Bouncing,” Mickey says.

“Do you really think that’s a good environment for you?” Doug asks skeptically.

Mickey shrugs. “Legal violence, right? ‘S what I’m fucking good at.”

Doug frowns, but Mickey’s not looking at him. He’s looking out the window, and he seems…Doug isn’t sure. Listless, maybe. He’s not bouncing his leg and clenching his fists and darting his eyes around like he was last month, but Doug wouldn’t call it an improvement. He’s still got his hands squeezed tight together between his legs.

“How you doing?” Doug tries again.

Mickey doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look away from the window, and Doug thinks he’s just going to ignore the question completely. But then he shrugs and shakes his head a little. “Who fucking cares?” He says softly, and something about the dejection in his voice makes Doug’s heart clench a little.

“I do,” he says.

Mickey scoffs. “You care if I fuck up.”

“Hey,” Doug says. “I care if your state of mind is making you more likely to fuck up.”

Mickey finally looks at him, eyebrows raised over the swearing. “I’m not going back,” he says firmly. “Never.”

“Okay,” Doug agrees easily. “I still care if you’re not okay.”

Mickey chews at his lower lip. “Saw someone I used to know,” he finally says, voice suspiciously flat. “Sucks.”

Doug furrows his brow. “Don’t you live with your ex-wife?”

Mickey huffs a little laugh. “That doesn’t fucking matter. Not like we got married because we wanted to, you know.”

“You didn’t love her?”

Mickey’s lips twist. It might be what he counts as a smile. “The fuck do I know about love?” It’s startingly honest, and it catches Doug off guard for a second. This isn’t Mickey trying to sound tough and unaffected, like Doug’s heard thousands of times before. He really just admitted he doesn’t know about love. It makes Doug’s throat ache. He doesn’t for a second consider asking about familial love. Not with Mickey’s family.

Doug hesitates for a second, but then he says, “Seems like you got into a lot of fights while you were locked up.”

“I didn’t start any,” Mickey says defensively. Doug would like to point out that’s probably not true; he didn’t get _caught_ starting any, sure, but that’s not actually the same thing. But he’s trying to get Mickey to like him, not shut down.

“What were the fights about?” Doug asks, but he can already tell before he finishes asking he went too far. Mickey stands up.

“We done here?”

It’s not quite as hostile as Doug’s gotten used to from him, but Doug can see his hands shaking. Doug just nods.

“Thanks for coming in,” he says. Mickey gives him a suspicious look, like he thinks Doug’s being sarcastic, then juts his chin and walks out.

Doug takes Mickey’s file home with him. He doesn’t know why he keeps looking at it; the only new information is what he’s adding, so there’s no reason to search for more insight. Abby takes one look at him poring over the file and shakes her head.

“You’re getting attached,” she remarks. They’ve been married thirty-six years; she knows the signs. She looks over his shoulder and makes a surprised sound. “A Milkovich?”

“I know,” Doug sighs. “But there’s something different about this one.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know,” Doug admits. “Just something about him. He’s trying. He even told me he wasn’t going back. And he’s…” Doug searches for the right word. “Wounded. Or something. I don’t know. He just seems like he could use a break.”

Abby snorts. “You and your broken-wing birds,” she says fondly. She kisses his temple and straightens up to leave him to it. “I just hope he doesn’t disappoint.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Doug mutters.

 

Mickey’s late. He’s late for his lateness. Doug hangs around the office until past seven, waiting for Mickey to show up. He shakes his head as he locks up. And to think, he got his hopes up over a Milkovich. He’s not going to send a patrol car over there, though. Not yet. He drops by himself.

It takes a long time for anyone to answer. The person who finally answers is not Mickey and it’s not his ex-wife, Svetlana. It’s a guy around Mickey’s age with red hair. He’s wearing an EMT uniform.

“Uh, hi,” he says, unsure.

“Mickey around?” Doug asks. The guy gives Doug a once over.

“Who’s asking?” He asks, straddling the line between polite and hostile. That’s a pretty solid way to handle unannounced, unknown visitors around here.

“Doug Hawkins,” Doug introduces himself, stretching out a hand. “I’m Mickey’s parole officer.”

“Oh.” The guy’s face clears and he shakes Doug’s hand easily. “I’m Ian,” he says. “I’m Mickey’s…friend.”

Doug notices the weird hesitation there but doesn’t push it. As long as he’s not Mickey’s dealer, Doug doesn’t really care. “Mickey missed his mandatory check-in.”

“Oh, shit,” Ian blurts. “No, no, no, hang on, okay? Don’t arrest him, please.”

“I’m not looking for an excuse to toss him back in,” Doug assures him. “But he can’t miss these appointments.”

“No, he didn’t mean to,” Ian trips all over himself to say. “He just gets his days mixed up sometimes—ah, shit, Mick, come on.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll call him, okay? Can you wait? Please?”

Doug nods his assent. He’s never been a fan of one-strike POs, depending on the strike. If Mickey’s got a good excuse, like this Ian guy seems to think he does, Doug’s willing to wait a bit and listen. A little kid comes out from the back of the house. He tips his head to the side and examines Doug. This must be Mickey’s kid. He looks just like Mickey, same dark hair and big blue eyes, but he’s missing the twitchiness and unbridled hostility. Doug feels a little guilty. He knows Mickey didn’t want to expose his kid to any of this, and he’s done his best to show up when a little kid would be at school. But Mickey’s the one who didn’t show up, and at least Doug didn’t send uniformed officers over.

“Hi,” the kid says. He steps around Doug cautiously and leans against Ian’s legs. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Doug. I’m a friend of your dad’s.”

“Really?” The kid asks. “I didn’t know Dad had any friends.”

It’s the kind of honestly only a little kid can dish out, and it makes Doug laugh a little. “Yeah, your dad was supposed to meet me and he didn’t come.”

The kid considers that for a second. “He always comes to get me from school when he says,” he tells Doug. “We walk home.”

“Well, that’s nice of him,” Doug says. He almost laughs at the thought of Mickey, with his tattoos and his scars and his perpetual scowl, waiting around the elementary school to pick up his son. But it’s also kind of…sweet.

“He’ll be home any minute,” Ian announces, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He rests a hand on top of the kid’s head. “Hey, Yev, can you go make sure your backpack’s ready for school tomorrow?”

“Ready like what?” The kid—Yev?—asks.

“Like get out your homework you were hiding and do it,” Ian says pointedly.

Yev giggles a little, caught out, and says, “Okay, Ian.” He casts a last curious look over his shoulder at Doug as he heads back down the hallway. Ian blows out a breath.

“Look, um, thanks for hanging around,” he says. “Mickey didn’t mean to miss his appointment. He—things have been crazy. He just—” Ian stops himself. “I’ll let him tell you when he gets here. I mean…” He shrugs. “If he’ll say anything. If he’s being all Mickey about it, I’ll just tell you myself.”

That makes Doug laugh. “Oh, so it’s not just me he won’t talk to?”

Ian snorts. “Well, I mean, he’s never going to talk to you. He talks to me most of the time.”

“So you’re Mickey’s…friend?” Doug’s fishing and he knows it’s obvious. But Ian’s obviously pretty close to Mickey, to know the whole situation, and Doug wasn’t under the impression Mickey had much by way of emotional support.

“I’ve known Mickey since we were kids,” Ian says. He’s got his eyes narrowed a little, like he doesn’t like Doug digging around. Doug doesn’t take it personally. It’s not like people love having a parole officer sniffing around their business, and around here, no one has much trust for law enforcement of any kind.

Mickey himself comes bursting in the house just then. “Hawkins!” He pants. “Shit, I didn’t mean to miss the appointment, I fucking forgot, I swear it wasn’t anything bad.”

Doug holds up his hands. “Hey, take it easy. I just want an explanation.” He pulls the urine sample kit out of his jacket pocket. “And a piss test.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but he almost smiles as he shakes off his coat. Ian takes it from him and hangs it up on a hook behind the door. “Where’s Svetlana?” Ian asks.

“She’s coming,” Mickey says with a shrug. “You know she can’t run in those fucking whore heels she wears.”

“Yev’s in his room,” Ian tells Mickey in an undertone. “I’ll go in there and close the door while you do the test.”

“Thanks, man,” Mickey says, giving Ian’s arm a little squeeze. He looks at Doug and jerks his head toward the hallway. “Guess we better get this over with.”

Doug waits while Mickey unbuckles his belt—that’s a new addition, though he’s starting to gain weight so maybe he won’t need it long—and pees in the cup. He passes the test, and they both wash their hands. Mickey leads him back down the hall to the living room. Svetlana comes in then, scowling.

“Ex-husband cannot be arrested,” she says. “Just mistake.”

“I’m handling it,” Mickey assures her. “Don’t get your fucking panties in a wad.”

She rolls her eyes and flaps a careless hand at him as she walks away. Doug is not understanding the dynamics of this household whatsoever.

“I, uh.” Mickey clears his throat and licks his lips. “Look, I’m sorry. But I was—I had this other thing I had to do.”

Doug raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Come on, Milkovich,” he says, and Mickey flinches minutely. “You gotta give me more than that.”

Mickey sighs. “Yeah.” He looks down at his hands. He cracks his knuckles. He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “I was at a parenting class.”

Doug absorbs that. He has to admit, he was absolutely not expecting that. He isn’t sure what he _was_ expecting, but he would never have guessed that. “Parenting class?” He echoes.

Mickey shrugs. He’s chewing at his lips, but when he finally meets Doug’s eyes he’s got his chin raised defiantly, scowl firmly in place. “Yeah, parenting class,” he says. “I’m a shitty dad, you know? Trying to—I don’t know. Figure it out.”

Doug doesn’t even know how to respond. “Why?”

“I just fucking told you,” Mickey points out, sounding a little confused.

“No, I mean, why are you a shitty dad?”

Mickey looks at him like he’s an idiot. “I don’t know. Probably because my dad was a fucking shitty dad, too, so I don’t know any better. Isn’t that the kind of bullshit shrinks say?”

Doug’s certainly not arguing with that, but he shakes his head. “I mean, why do you think you’re a shitty dad? I talked to your kid for a second and he seemed to like you okay. Said you pick him up from school every day.”

Mickey raises a hand to his mouth and gnaws at his thumbnail. “Uh,” he says. He swallows hard. His eyes cut to the hallway. “I don’t know if I can tell you.”

Doug sighs, heart sinking. “Parole violation?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey mumbles. “I don’t know what counts.”

Doug sighs again, weighing their options. “Alright, well, tell me, and then I’ll decide if I heard it or not.”

He expects that to get at least a huff of laughter from Mickey, but Mickey is the most serious Doug’s ever seen him. “I shook him,” he says, voice trembling a little. He looks down at his hands again. “Grabbed his arm and shook him just like—” He stops talking, but Doug knows exactly how that sentence ends, sees it in his mind’s eye from that day in the courtroom. “So I’m going to this parenting class now, okay? I gotta—I gotta fucking do better. And if you gotta send my ass back for that…” Mickey shrugs, little tremors running through his shoulders. “I’d deserve it.”

Doug has to take a deep breath and swallow down the sudden impulse to hug Mickey. That wouldn’t be very appropriate, and there’s no way in hell it would go over well with Mickey. Doug wants to pump his fist triumphantly. He was _right_. There’s something different about Mickey Milkovich.

“Hey,” Doug says. He waits until Mickey looks up to go on. “I’m proud of you.”

“What the fuck for?” Mickey demands, actually mad about it. “Hitting my kid?”

“For working on it,” Doug says. “For wanting to change.”

“What, I get a fucking trophy for knowing I’m a piece of shit?”

Doug huffs. “For _wanting to change_ ,” he repeats. “Your dad ever go to a parenting class?” He doesn’t need Mickey to confirm it to know that never happened. “Did your dad ever even feel guilty for hurting you? You know what you did was awful, and you don’t just feel guilty about it—you’re taking actual steps to fix it. I can’t get half my parolees to get into that headspace.”

Mickey looks down and shrugs. “Kid deserves better,” he mumbles, and Doug almost can’t breathe with how proud he is. He doesn’t know if he has any right to pride for this, really, but hell, _someone_ ’s got to be proud of Mickey. But Doug knows Mickey can’t take praise very well. It’s another sad reality from the way he was raised, and Doug doesn’t want to make him even more uncomfortable than he already obviously is. So Doug makes himself back off. His job is to help Mickey, and if that means matching Mickey’s careless affectation, Doug can do that.

“I guess it’s a good enough reason to miss your check-in,” Doug says nonchalantly. Mickey looks up quickly.

“Yeah?” He checks.

“This time,” Doug admonishes. “Don’t do it again.”

Mickey shakes his head. “No, I won’t.”

“Don’t you program stuff into your phone calendar?” Doug ribs him.

“My phone’s got a fucking calendar in it?” Mickey asks, mystified, and Doug can’t help but laugh at him a little. It’s not exactly compassionate, maybe, because Mickey didn’t get to see how phones have changed in the past six years and it’s not like he could’ve afforded the most cutting edge even before, but still.

“Ask someone to help you set that up,” Doug says. “Keep doing what you’re doing, okay? You’re doing a good job.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey says. But Doug can see him smiling a little as he closes the door.

 

Finding out Mickey’s gay is a shock, to say the least. Maybe Doug relies too much on stereotypes, but he would _never_ have guessed it. It does make a lot of things make a hell of a lot more sense, though. Terry, mostly, but also the way Mickey never seems to stop checking over his shoulder. Terry wouldn’t be the only one in Mickey’s life who would have a problem with him being gay, especially in prison.

When Mickey asks Doug to keep an eye out for Terry, Doug thinks Mickey’s being paranoid. Sure, he said Terry tried to kill him the last time they saw each other, but Doug thinks it was probably more of a convenience thing than a premeditated attempt. Not only that, but Doug doesn’t see how Mickey could differentiate between Terry wanting to kill him for being gay and Terry’s usual violence.

But then he sees Terry’s ankle monitor heading toward Mickey’s neighborhood, and he gets there and there are guns on the scene and Mickey says Terry stabbed Ian and Terry really, truly, looks like he would have shot his own son in broad daylight if they hadn’t shown up. Doug should’ve trusted that Mickey knew what he was talking about; after all, Mickey lived with Terry for most of his life. Doug’s shaking as he waits for Mickey and his horde to clean up so it’s safe for Doug to come in without needing to punish Mickey.

Doug has three kids. He knows he and Terry don’t have much in common, especially when it comes to parenting, but Doug still doesn’t understand how Terry could be willing to _kill_ his own child. Doug’s never understood the level of hatred people have for gay people. Maybe because he had that aunt who had her “roommate” for forty years.

Doug lights out of Mickey’s house pretty quickly that day. He can tell Mickey needs him gone, needs to check Ian over and hold his son tight and just hunker down with his family. Doug can give him that. Mickey has a scheduled check-in next week, anyway.

“How’s everyone doing?” Doug asks when Mickey shows up. It’s only four, and he’d explained that Ian was with Yevgeny.

Mickey shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Kid’s having nightmares, but he’ll get over it.”

“What about you?” Doug asks.

Mickey stays quiet for a long, long time. Doug doesn’t jump in, because he can see Mickey fighting with himself, chewing at his lips and swallowing hard. After what feels like an eternity, Mickey admits, barely above a whisper and looking everywhere but at Doug, “Yeah, I got nightmares, too.”

“Yeah,” Doug says. He doesn’t want to come on too strong and shut Mickey down, but he’s aching to get Mickey to open up. “Couldn’t have been easy. Growing up with him as your dad.”

Mickey’s breath is shaky. “He took me on every fag bash he ever went on, long as I can remember.” His hands are shaking and he clenches them together. “Looked right at me every time he stomped the guy or made me do it. Used to almost fucking piss myself, I was so scared. Like he knew and he was just biding his time until it was me.”

It’s the most Doug’s ever heard Mickey say at one time, and he can’t even be happy about it because of what Mickey’s telling him. “I’m sorry,” Doug says. “I’m sorry that happened to you. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you were telling me he’d come after you.”

Mickey shrugs and rubs a hand across his nose. “I don’t care if he comes after me,” he says, which is such an obvious lie it’s almost laughable. Except nothing about this is laughable. “But when he goes after Ian, or the kid…” He blows out a breath. He shrugs again. “Thanks. For getting him, I mean. And looking the other way.”

Doug shakes his head. “Least I could do.”

They’re quiet for a second. Mickey runs a hand through his hair. “He caught us,” he says softly. “Me and Ian. When we were kids. Or, whatever, teenagers. He came home early, and we were there, weren’t expecting it, and he—” He swallows convulsively, like the memory is making him sick. “Almost killed us. I wouldn’t have cared so much if he killed me. Expected it my whole life, you know? Mostly just waiting for it. But Ian.” He shakes his head. “Not Ian.”

“You’ve loved him that long?” Doug asks, almost awed. Neither of them can be even twenty-five. It’s unusual, especially around here, to find people that young who’ve been in love for that long. It’s more unusual to see the soft look on Mickey’s face when he looks up. He smiles almost helplessly.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging.

Doug sits back in his chair, a little blown away. “So that was the last time you saw your dad until now?” He checks. “When he found you and Ian?”

“Oh,” Mickey says, face clouding. “No. We—well, uh. He brought Svetlana around. And then, uh, she got pregnant and we got married. Ian kinda—he had shit going on, too, and he was gone for a while, and then…Ian came home, and I, uh, I came out. To the whole bar. And that’s when Terry tried to kill me. He was breaking parole, so he went back inside, and then I got picked up before he got out that time.”

Doug’s mouth is actually open now. Mickey’s been through more at twenty-three than most middle-aged men Doug knows. Obviously he knows Mickey isn’t telling him the whole story—there’s got to be a whole lot missing between Svetlana showing up and getting pregnant, for one thing, and Mickey didn’t mention where Ian was while he was gone. But still. “Wow,” is all he can manage to say.

Mickey shrugs. “Whatever. Past is the fucking past, right?”

For all his tough words, Mickey is actually pretty terrible at hiding his emotions. Anyone could take one look at Mickey and know his past is _not_ the fucking past. Doug can’t imagine anyone living through what Mickey has and not be haunted by the past.

“Was that what all the stuff in prison was about?” Doug asks. “The fights?”

Mickey shrugs. “My dad has guys all over. He must not have any A team in that one, though. I’d be dead for fucking sure.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Or maybe they weren’t his guys. I don’t know. Guys found out I fuck dudes on the outside, too, and they don’t really like fags inside.”

“How’d they find out?” Doug asks curiously. “Doesn’t seem like something you’d tell people.”

Mickey sighs. He tugs at the neck of his shirt and reveals a tattoo on his chest. It’s pretty awful, as far as tattoos go; an obvious stick and poke job he got in prison. It’s lopsided and the handwriting is shaky, but there it is: IAN GALLAGHER.

“Holy shit,” Doug says, almost against his will. Mickey’s face has gone pink.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Not my best fucking idea.”

“Well, at least Ian liked it,” Doug says.

Mickey barks out something that’s almost a laugh. “Something like that,” he says cryptically. There are shadows in his eyes Doug isn’t going to ask about. Not right now, anyway.

“Mickey,” Doug says carefully. “Have you ever thought about therapy?”

Mickey scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Ian fucking ask you to push that?”

“No,” Doug says. “It just seems like you’d benefit a _lot_ from therapy.”

Mickey laughs a little. “Fuck off,” he says, then looks a little guilty and worried because he realizes telling his PO to fuck off probably isn’t a great strategy. Doug snorts. “Look, I went to the prison shrink a few times.”

“When the warden made you,” Doug points out, because that’s in his file.

Mickey shrugs. “Who fucking cares why? I did it. And guess what? It didn’t do any fucking good. So why would another one make a difference?”

“Did you actually tell the prison counselor anything?” Doug says. He’s willing to bet the answer is no. “Did you talk about any of this?”

Mickey slouches down in his seat and looks out the window. “Why talk about it? It all happened already. What, crying about it like a little bitch is going to make me feel better?”

“Maybe!” Doug says, thinking about his wife finally putting her foot down about him seeing a therapist for his Vietnam-related night terrors. “Do you feel better after telling me?”

Mickey shrugs. “I mean, Ian knows all of it already,” he says. Then he tips his head. “Well, not all the stuff from inside.”

“Mickey, I think you need someone you can talk to about all of it. Someone you don’t have to worry about judging you or anything.”

Mickey looks at him for a minute. Then he shrugs and stands up. “Whatever. You gonna make it part of my parole or can I go now?”

Doug bites back an irritated groan. Every time he feels like he’s making progress with Mickey, Mickey balks and takes about five steps backward. All this makes it make a lot more sense, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating. All he can do is let Mickey set the pace.

“You’re good to go,” he says. “See you next month.”

Mickey doesn’t leave right away. He bites his lip, and then he says, “See you then.”

It’s something, at least.

 

As soon as Mickey steps into his office, Doug can tell something’s different. Something’s off. He knows better than to outright ask, though. That gets him nowhere with Mickey. They’re seven months into Mickey’s parole, and Mickey’s been perfect. Sure, he’s not always completely punctual, and it took him a while to stop snapping at Doug for every little thing, but he actually shows up and he never gives Doug any trouble about random testing. Not too much, anyway. Doug’s always cared more about attitude than anything else.

A year ago, if someone had told Doug his favorite parolee was going to be a _Milkovich_ , he would’ve laughed in their face. But that’s where he’s at. He knows he’s not supposed to play favorites, and he knows getting too attached and getting his hopes up over parolees is a recipe for disappointment and heartbreak. But he can’t help it. It’s amazing to see how hard Mickey’s trying, noticing all the ways he’s changing. He’s not exactly an open book and he probably never will be, but he doesn’t get up and leave anytime Doug tries to talk to him about how he feels anymore. Not immediately, anyway.

So yeah, Doug notices when something is different with Mickey, and he knows to wait it out until Mickey works up to talking about it. It might take a month or two, but Mickey will tell him eventually. Probably.

Today, though, he’s rewarded as soon as they go back to his office after Mickey passes his drug test. Doug’s gotten lax on giving Mickey randoms during the month, because he’s getting confident that Mickey’s keeping himself out of trouble. He can’t stop doing random check-ins altogether, but he doesn’t have to do two per week anymore.

“Hey,” Mickey says when he sits down. He’s bouncing his knee, so Doug puts down his pen. This is going to be important. “Um. I went to the free clinic last week.”

“Why?” Doug asks, a little worried. “You sick?”

“No,” Mickey says. He sounds a little exasperated. “I mean I went to the…the shrink clinic. The free shrinks.”

Doug’s eyes bug out in surprise. “You went to a therapist?”

Mickey nods. “Didn’t really have a choice. Hyperventilated at work and Ian got the emergency call. Freaked him the fuck out.”

“Yeah, God, that’s awful,” Doug says. Getting caught off guard at the scene of someone you know having a medical emergency would be bad enough, but someone you’ve been in love with for close to a decade? “Why’d you hyperventilate?”

Mickey sighs. He tips his head back in his chair and looks at the ceiling for a minute. “Guy from inside came through my checkout line. I lost my fucking shit. Went fucking crazy. Got all freaked out like I was going to wake up back in the joint. Doesn’t make any fucking sense, but, you know. I’m fucked in the head.”

He looks so _young_. When Doug’s youngest son was Mickey’s age, he was in grad school. And here’s Mickey talking, would-be nonchalant except for how he’s clenching his hands together, about having a breakdown over the horrible memories he has in his head. Doug doesn’t know if it’s all hitting him so hard just because Mickey’s one of the youngest parolees he’s ever dealt with, or because he knows Mickey’s father and knows how terrifying and horrible Mickey’s childhood was, or because Doug _remembers_ looking around his unit and seeing the other guys all fresh-faced and broken and knows how many of them never recovered, but he has to swallow down a lump in his throat before he can speak.

“You’re okay now, though?” He shrugs. “Well, for you, anyway.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Mickey says without heat. Doug likes that Mickey can joke with him now. He’s come to understand Mickey cracking jokes is actually a sign of comfort and respect. “I’m alright,” he says. “I’ve only been to the therapist a few times, and it’s a different one every time, but…yeah.” He shrugs. “I don’t know how to tell if it’s working. I mean, I don’t feel any different.”

Doug huffs. “It’s not like it’s a fungal cream, Mickey. It’s going to take a while.”

“Fungal cream?” Mickey echoes incredulously. He laughs. “That’s fucking gross.”

“But the metaphor works.”

Mickey makes a face. “What are you, my fucking English teacher?”

“Hey, I majored in English in college,” Doug reveals. Part of him is actually a little surprised Mickey connected metaphors with English class.

“You went to _college_?” Mickey sounds so incredulous it’s almost insulting. Doug can’t help but crack up laughing.

“What, I don’t seem smart enough?”

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t know anyone who’s been to college. I mean, not any old people, anyway.” He cringes a little. “Sorry. But you _are_ kinda old.”

Doug’s laughing again. He can’t fault Mickey for thinking that. Mickey’s twenty-three, and Doug’s over sixty. Hell, he remembers being twenty-three and thinking thirty was old. Doug’s struck, again, by how young Mickey is. He’s younger than Doug’s youngest son by almost ten years.

“You know people your own age who’ve been to college?” He asks. More kids are going to college now, sure, but it’s still a little unusual for the crowd Mickey rolls with. Or rolled with, anyway. His crowd these days seems to be his ex-wife, his boyfriend, and his kindergartner.

“Ian’s brother Lip went to college, way back when. He’s a professor now. Or like…he’ll be a professor? I don’t fucking know; he’s almost done with his PhD but he already teaches some classes. And Debbie and Carl, Ian’s little brother and sister, are both in college right now, too. Ian took some of the EMT classes at the college. And my sister just started.”

There’s real pride in Mickey’s voice as he lists all this, but he outright grins when he mentions his sister. Doug knows he has to push delicately here.

“Does your sister live around here?”

“Nah,” Mickey says, eyes going dark for a second. “She had to get out of here. She’s good now. She’s been in Detroit a few years.”

“You sound pretty close.”

Mickey shrugs. He doesn’t say anything for a second. “She got it worse than me,” he finally says softly. “With Terry. And with a bunch of other fucking shitheads, too. I didn’t protect her enough.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Doug reminds him, throat getting tight for a second. He doesn’t want to consider what happened to Mickey’s sister that Mickey would consider was worse than what he went through.

“Well, she’s doing good now,” Mickey says. He sniffs. “She’s taking care of herself.”

Mickey’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Doug nods at him to go ahead and pick it up. Mickey hesitates for a second before pulling reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and putting them on. He makes a face before Doug can so much as say anything.

“Deal I made with the kid,” he mutters, like Doug’s going to make fun of him.

“I need reading glasses, too,” Doug points out. “Maybe you’re older than you thought.”

Mickey snorts and flips him off with the _U_ finger. His smiles as he reads the text, and from the soft edges of the smile, Doug’s guessing it’s Ian.

“We good here?” Mickey asks, not hostile like he gets sometimes but just asking.

“Go ahead,” Doug says with a smile. “Go home to your guy.”

Mickey snorts again. “My guy?” He asks. “That sounds really fucking gay.”

“Well,” Doug says pointedly.

“Whatever, man,” Mickey huffs with a pleased little grin. He seems to like being teased about Ian. “See you next month.”

“Mickey,” Doug calls, stopping him just before Mickey leaves his office. Mickey turns around, eyebrows raised expectantly. “I’m proud of you.”

He’s half-expecting Mickey to tell him to fuck off again. It seems like the most likely response. Instead, Mickey ducks his head, cheeks heating up. “Okay,” he says, not meeting Doug’s eyes and biting down on his lip. Doug could be mistaken, but he’s pretty sure Mickey’s holding back a smile. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Doug echoes. He smiles for the rest of the day.

 

It’s sticky hot like it always is in August, and Mickey’s made it a year into his parole. Doug’s so proud he could burst. He can’t believe the difference a year has made. He remembers looking at Mickey that first time, when Mickey still had the shackles on his ankles, and thinking he’d never get through to him. Now Mickey’s in _therapy_ , for crying out loud. He got his GED, a fact he hid from Doug for over a month until Ian, apparently, badgered him into sharing.

“You get tired of checking people’s piss all day?” Mickey asks conversationally in Doug’s office. “You been watching dudes pee into cups your whole goddamn life.”

“Half my life,” Doug corrects.

“More than half by now,” Mickey shoots back. Doug rolls his eyes, but Mickey is right, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Drug testing isn’t my favorite part of the job,” he admits. “But it’s a necessary evil.”

“What is?” Mickey asks. “Your favorite part. I mean, there’s gotta be good shit, too, right? Or do you just hate it?”

“I don’t hate it,” Doug says. “Most days. There are bad days when someone I was really rooting for slips up big enough I can’t look the other way. Or I get people who just keep coming back again and again and don’t even care that they’re screwing up.”

Mickey swallows hard. “Like my family, huh?”

Doug nods. “Yeah,” he says honestly, because there’s no point lying about it. Mickey knows it just as well as Doug does. “But the good shit is when I see the difference in people who _are_ putting in the work.” He raises his eyebrows. “You know what I mean?”

Mickey isn’t stupid. It was something Doug figured out pretty quickly, and he’s a little ashamed to admit he’s actually bowled over by how quickly Mickey figures things out most of the time. And it’s not like Doug’s trying to be subtle right now. So yes, Mickey knows Doug’s talking about him. He doesn’t smile, though. He bites his thumbnail. He’s gotten better at not chewing his nails down to the nubs, but he still does it sometimes.

“So me screwing up would really shit on your parade, huh?”

It takes Doug’s breath away how quick Mickey is to doubt himself. It makes Doug mad. If Mickey had different parents, lived in a different part of town, had _one_ different teacher who’d given two shits, his whole life could’ve turned out differently. Over the past year, Doug has seen Mickey open up like a sunflower, and he can’t help but think bitterly that it wouldn’t have taken much to change Mickey’s life, even a little bit, when he was younger. Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in prison. At least not for as long, anyway.

“Well, I can’t pretend I wouldn’t be disappointed if you screwed up,” Doug agrees. “But I don’t see you doing that. Not on purpose, and not in a big way.”

Mickey nods, still biting his nail. “You cut me a lot of slack,” he says. “Being late and the time I had—”

“When the other guy had a gun,” Doug cuts him off, raising his eyebrows.

Mickey rolls his eyes a little. “Sure, when Lip had the gun.”

“I do cut you a little more slack than I do other guys sometimes,” Doug confesses.

“Why?” Mickey asks. He seems half-hopeful and half-suspicious, like he’s hoping Doug will say it’s because he’s a good guy but expects Doug to ask for something in return. It makes Doug want to go find Terry in whatever prison he’s in right now and punch him in the face.

“I told you; you’re trying. You have a good attitude. You’re a good kid, Mickey.”

“Not a kid,” Mickey protests, and Doug supposes, despite his young age, he’s right. It’s not like Mickey got much of a childhood.

“Okay,” Doug acquiesces. “You’re a good man. At your core, you are good. And I get the feeling it’s been a long time since anyone’s cut you any slack. I think all you need is a break. And I’m more than happy to be the one to give it to you.”

Mickey’s eyes are shiny with tears. He doesn’t agree with Doug’s assertion that he’s a good man, but he doesn’t protest. That’s actually monumental for him.

“My life’s been pretty shitty for a long time,” he says with a little wobble in his voice. It’s such an understatement. Then he shrugs and adds, “You know what though? It’s good now. It’s—it’s kind of scary.”

“Scary?” Doug asks.

Mickey blows out a breath, rubbing his palms down his thighs. “The shrink says I’m afraid to be happy,” he says quietly. “Because whenever I get too happy, shit goes down. I got too happy with Ian and my dad caught us. And then I came out and my dad was gone and I was happy with Ian _again_ , and the bipolar thing happened. And we finally started to get _that_ sorta figured out and we were happy, and then Ian went off his fucking meds and I went to prison. So.”

Doug doesn’t think Mickey realizes that he’d never told Doug about Ian being bipolar, let alone that they dealt with all that as teenagers. Doug can’t make a big deal of it, or Mickey will shy away. Instead he says,

“What does your therapist say about you being afraid of being happy?”

Mickey shrugs. “Some bullshit about trusting my own happiness and knowing I’m strong enough to take any bad shit that happens.” Doug snorts. He doesn’t have a degree in psychology, but he’s known Mickey for a year now and he knows that’s never going to be an answer he’ll accept. Mickey laughs a little. “See? You know it’s bullshit, too.”

“I don’t think it’s bullshit, necessarily,” Doug protests. “I think maybe the therapist didn’t phrase it right for you. I think you should look at it more like…” Doug considers. “Yeah, you know more than anyone that bad things can happen. But you’re really stable right now, Mickey. I don’t know all the details of your relationship with your family, but it seems solid. You’ve got Ian and you’ve got Svetlana and Yevgeny. If bad things happen, you have them to support you. That’s its own kind of happiness, even in the bad times.”

Mickey’s thinking that over with a furrowed brow. “Sounds like more shrinky bullshit,” he decides, but it’s halfhearted at best. He defaults to contrariness when he’s unsure, so Doug’s not offended. “Thought you majored in English,” Mickey goes on. “Why you know so much about psychology stuff?”

It’s Mickey surprising him again. Doug’s surprised Mickey remembers him saying he majored in English. “Well, I’ve been a PO for thirty-six years, Mickey,” Doug points out. “You pick up a lot about psychology.”

“Ian’s little brother is going to school to be a drug counselor,” Mickey reveals. “So that’s kinda like your job plus shrink stuff, right?”

“He probably won’t have to do drug tests himself,” Doug says.

“Oh, so it’s way better than your job.”

“Keep talking your way out of my good graces, Milkovich.” Doug didn’t mean to use Mickey’s last name. He’s been avoiding it since everything happened with Terry, and because he kept noticing Mickey flinching when Doug said it. But Mickey doesn’t flinch this time. He just laughs, but Doug can tell he’s getting antsy. Staying in Doug’s office too long seems to be tough for Mickey. Doug has no idea how he’s dealing with therapy. “Go on, get out of here,” Doug says. Mickey flips him off amenably and heads for the door. He hesitates before he opens it.

“Uh,” he says. “So. Ian and the kid are—well, Svet’s in on it, too, I guess, and Ian’s family and my sister. My…family,” he amends awkwardly. “It’s stupid, but, uh, they’re throwing me a party. Next week. ‘Cause it’s my one year out of jail mark, and my…” He mumbles the last word. “Birthday.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Doug says. He hadn’t been sure how much fanfare Mickey wanted about his birthday. He should’ve expected awkwardness. “Happy birthday, Mickey.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey says. “But anyway, um, Ian wanted me to invite you. To the party. If you don’t got other shit going on. I mean, it’s just fucking cake and beer and maybe barbeque at Fiona’s house. The house Ian grew up in. You don’t gotta come.”

He hasn’t looked at Doug once since he started explaining the party. Doug’s chest is all full of warmth at this halting, uncomfortable invitation. The more Mickey downplays something, Doug’s learned, the more important it is to him. Doug’s starting to suspect that Mickey says Ian wanted him to do something when it’s really something he wanted but is embarrassed about. Doug can’t imagine Ian being upset by that.

“I’d love to come,” Doug says, putting Mickey quickly out of his misery. Mickey looks up fast.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Mickey, of course.” Doug keeps his voice light even though he’s almost on the verge of tears. “Is it alright if I bring my wife?”

“Whoa, your wife?” Mickey says. “I mean, I saw your picture, but I didn’t really think about it…” Mickey licks his lips nervously. “Yeah, you can bring her. Is she—I mean, I gotta watch my mouth or anything?”

“Abby can handle herself,” Doug promises. It’s kind of touching Mickey even asked. He’s not sure Mickey knows _how_ to watch his mouth.

“Okay,” Mickey breathes. “Uh, it’s Saturday. At two.” He comes back over to Doug’s desk and scribbles an address on the top of Doug’s Post-It stack. He looks down at what he wrote and nods decisively. “Okay, bye.”

“See you then,” Doug says, still acting casual. As soon as Mickey closes the door behind himself, Doug yanks his phone out of the drawer and calls Abby.

“Abs,” he says. “You’re never going to believe what we’re doing next weekend.”

 

The house is in one of those gentrified neighborhoods, one with a cupcake boutique on one corner and a doggy daycare on the other. It’s easy to see this house is a holdout from the less-upscale part of the neighborhood’s history; the yard is littered with bikes, scrap metal, and a few trash bags. There’s a broken down, rusted van on the side of the house, and the gate with the broken latch screeches when Doug pushes it open. Still, the voices from the backyard are a happy murmur, and there’s an inviting pool full of brightly-colored floaties at one end of the yard.

Doug and Abby come around the house and the scene is outright festive. There’s a banner that makes no mention of prison nor birthday, but says simply, _Mickey_. Abby holds back a laugh.

“Succinct,” she says, but she’s smiling around at the balloons and the coolers of beer. There’s a table with presents on it, and when Doug spots Mickey, he’s glancing at the table with a look full of pure confusion.

“Ay,” Mickey calls. “Here to test my piss?”

It draws titters from his guests, all well-versed in the parole process. Doug holds up his hands in surrender. “I come in peace,” he promises. Abby drops their present on the gift table and Mickey flushes.

“You didn’t have to buy me a fucking present,” he says. Doug had made sure to warn Abby about Mickey’s frequent use of the word _fuck_ , but he still hears her snort slightly.

“It’s your birthday,” Doug points out.

“Dad!” Yevgeny yells, coming careening out of the house. “Guess _what_!”

“What?” Mickey asks patiently. Yevgeny launches himself into the air and Mickey catches him easily.

“Debbie said _I_ can help cook a hot dog.” Yevgeny is preening under this great responsibility. Mickey just stares at him for a second, nonplussed.

“Nice,” he finally says. “You should get to work. People are hungry.”

“Okay, Dad!” Yevgeny yells, wriggling out of Mickey’s arms. “I’m gonna make your hot dog extra special.”

“Thought that was Ian’s job,” someone yells from the grass. Mickey sticks up his middle finger without even turning around, and Ian buries his face in Mickey’s shoulder to laugh.

“Hey,” Ian says, raising his head to glare at their gathered friends and family. “We have guests. Can you act like civilized people for one day?”

“No,” the same guy says. Mickey flips him off again. Ian joins him this time. It seems fairly routine.

“We’ve got burgers and dogs on the way,” Ian tells Doug and Abby. “There are drinks over there in the cooler. You can grab a seat if you want. Just kick someone out of a chair if you want one.”

Doug realizes, with a little start, that he and Abby seem to be the only actual _guests_ here. The other people all know each other with an ease that speaks to a family bond. Doug knows this is a gift Mickey’s given him, inviting him here. Mickey considers Doug important.

“Hi there,” a woman around thirty says when they come over to the coolers full of soda and beer. She’s dumping more ice into the coolers, wearing cutoff shorts and no shoes. “I’m Fiona. I’m Ian’s big sister.”

“Hi, I’m Doug,” Doug says, shaking her hand. “I’m Mickey’s PO. This is my wife, Abby.”

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you!” Fiona says enthusiastically. “Mickey’s told us—well, okay, not a lot, because he’s Mickey, but he’s mentioned you, at least.”

Doug laughs. “Yeah, he’s mentioned you, too.”

Fiona pauses. “He has?”

Now Doug feels a little awkward. He can’t just come out and say, “Mickey talks about you like you’re some kind of hero for everything you did for your siblings”, but it’s the truth. And honestly, Doug doesn’t know all the details, but from what he does know, Mickey’s at least halfway right.

“I mean, he told me you’re Ian’s sister,” Doug says instead. “Ian’s what he talks about most.” That’s mostly true. Mickey tends to circle back to Ian about nine times out of ten. Fiona gets a soft little smile on her face. She shakes her head.

“I tell ya, none of us expected those two to work like they do.” She lowers her voice. “I mean, you didn’t know Mickey before, but God. He was a scary kid. It wasn’t his fault,” she adds quickly, a defensive edge to her words. “But he terrorized the neighborhood when he was a kid. And then even when he was calming down a little, I swear Ian was the only person he didn’t hate.”

“You all get along now?” Abby asks interestedly.

“Oh, yeah,” Fiona says. “I mean, Mickey still gets a little annoyed with us because he says we talk about feelings shit too much and we’re too loud when we all get together, but he’s getting used to it. He can last almost three hours at a big family dinner now.” She says this proudly, so it’s obviously some kind of record. “And he does so much at the house. His house and here. He’s fixed every sink in the house, and he’s the only one who keeps my car running. He’s real good with Liam, too.” She shakes her head a little ruefully. “I never would’ve expected to lean on Mickey Milkovich so much, I can tell you that.”

Doug huffs. “I’m Terry’s PO, too,” he says. “I have an inkling.”

Fiona looks murderous at the mention of Mickey’s father. “He can get out and come banging on _my_ door,” she says darkly. “I have a few things I’d like to say to him.”

“I can imagine.”

They’re saved from trying to make any small talk by Svetlana walking out of the house with a young woman who has to be Mickey’s sister. She has the dark hair and blue eyes, and Doug remembers her from the courtroom all those years ago. She looks a hell of a lot healthier than she did then.

“Hello, Hawkins,” Svetlana says. “He is one who sends back to jail,” she tells Mickey’s sister.

“PO,” Fiona supplies.

“Hey,” Mickey’s sister says. “I’m Mandy. Mickey’s sister.” She doesn’t put out a hand for him to shake. She’s looking at him warily, and if Doug didn’t already know she was Mickey’s sister, her attitude toward him would tip him off right away. There’s that same hostility rolling off her, ready to put up her fists against a world that’s done nothing but beat her down.

“Doug Hawkins,” he says. “Mickey tells me you’re in college.”

She ducks her head and blushes the exact same way Mickey does. She laughs a little. “I’m only part-time,” she says, almost shy. “Mickey acts like it’s such a big fucking deal.”

“It is,” Abby jumps in to say. At Mandy’s curious look, she explains, “I’m a math professor.”

Mandy smirks. “I’m never taking another math class in my life.”

Abby laughs good-naturedly. “Yeah, I know, people either love math or hate it.”

“Mickey was always the math guy,” Mandy says, waving a hand dismissively. “He took over running the numbers on Dad’s jobs when he was twelve. He was already better than Dad by then.”

Svetlana makes a derisive noise. “Not hard,” she says venomously. Mandy laughs with a bitter edge. Doug wonders if there’s anyone on Earth who knows Terry Milkovich and doesn’t hate him. The fact that one man wreaked such havoc would be impressive if it weren’t so awful.

“You guys see Liam anywhere inside?” Fiona asks. “I haven’t seen him in a while and I gotta make sure he did his summer school stuff earlier.”

“He went with Lip to buy buns,” Mandy says.

“Lip went to buy buns?” Fiona mutters distractedly, craning her neck to look over the people in the yard. “Shit, I didn’t even notice.” She turns back to Doug and Abby and says brightly, “Food’s gonna be done soon. Grab a drink! Have a good time. I gotta go check on the cake and make sure no one’s eating it.”

Doug and Abby find two discarded camp chairs and sit back with beers. “This isn’t that rowdy,” Abby says teasingly. “I was expecting a brawl.”

“Well, we just got here,” Doug points out, squinting in an attempt to figure out if Mickey’s drinking beer or not. Technically, he’s not allowed to, but maybe he knows Doug’s not going to bust him and is letting loose.

“Let him be,” Abby admonishes, tipping her head back and closing her eyes to enjoy the sun on her face. “It’s his birthday.”

“I know, I know,” Doug grumbles. “Still pretty ballsy to invite me and then break parole right under my nose, though.”

Abby snorts. “Sounds like you can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

Doug snorts right back and nudges her arm chidingly. “I’m an officer of the court.”

Abby gives him a look. “You’ve practically got adoption papers filled out, Dougie. You knocked down that court boundary a long time ago.”

His wife knows him, that’s for sure. He loftily makes no comment and she laughs at him. Another guy comes out of the house just then, holding a bag of hotdog buns in each hand. He’s the one from the gun incident—Lip. He’s followed by a younger boy. Fiona goes over to talk to him. She puts her hands on his cheeks while they talk, looking for all the world like a stern mother, so this must be another Gallagher sibling. As far as Doug knows, Fiona doesn’t have any kids of her own.

“Hey, Mickey,” Lip calls, and Doug would still like to know what kind of name Lip is. He assumes it’s a nickname. He _hopes_ it’s a nickname, anyway. “The car’s making that sound again.”

Mickey groans. “The fuck you do to it this time?”

“I didn’t do it!” Lip protests. “It was doing it as soon as I got in.”

“It leaking fluid?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah.”

Mickey groans again, louder this time. “Alright, I’ll fix it.”

“Not right now,” Ian says. “We’re in the middle of your party.”

“I gotta go put the pan under the leak, at least,” Mickey points out. “See if there’s shit in it. Might need a new filter.”

“I can do it,” Lip says.

“Nah, wouldn’t want the professor getting dirty.” Mickey sounds partially disdainful and partially playful. Lip doesn’t seem to mind or even notice. Mickey stalks off to the front of the house. Ian watches him go, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He comes over to the coolers to get a drink.

“Hey, Hawkins,” Ian says. “You guys good?”

“We’re great,” Abby says.

“Hey, Ian, who is everyone?” Doug asks curiously.

Ian scans around, pointing out people. “I think you met Mandy, that’s Mickey’s little sister. She was my best friend before Mickey and me ever started anything up. She was actually my beard for a while.” He laughs and shakes his head. “The one over there with Yev is my little sister, Debbie. You’ve seen my brother, Lip, before. Then sitting over there we got Carl, my little brother, and Kev and V, they’ve been our neighbors for years and they’re family by now. Mickey worked with Kev for a while, back before. Those are their twins. You were talking to Fiona earlier, and she’s with Liam right now, my youngest brother.”

“So you and Mickey are integrated into each other’s families, huh?” He teases. “You kids getting married?”

“Leave them alone,” Abby says, swatting his shoulder.

Ian laughs good-naturedly. “Nah, I don’t think so,” he says easily. He shrugs. “We don’t really see the point.”

“Some people say taxes,” Abby supplies.

Ian snorts. “I don’t think Mickey even knows he has to file taxes.”

Doug groans. “Don’t tell me that. That’s a crime, too, you know.”

Ian laughs. “What, you think the IRS is going to audit him? God, can you imagine?”

They’re all laughing about that mental image. “I’m glad you threw him this party,” Doug says. “A year out of prison’s a big accomplishment, and he’s doing great with his parole.”

Ian shakes his head, not smiling anymore. “I’d hire one of those airplanes that writes messages in the sky if he wouldn’t totally hate it. He says he thinks birthday parties are stupid, but you should’ve seen him plan Yev’s.”

“He just thinks a party for himself is stupid,” Doug concludes.

“Yeah,” Ian says softly. He shrugs. “We’re working on it.”

There’s a bit of an awkward pause. Abby jumps in and asks, “So how did you and Mickey get together?”

Ian cracks up laughing. “Uh…” He pauses and makes a sheepish face. “Let’s just say we knew each other from around the neighborhood and it just sort of happened.”

“So it’s a story that would horrify most people,” Doug guesses wryly.

It makes Ian laugh again. “God, you should’ve heard my family when they found out I was with Mickey. Lip knew the whole time, and he was always telling me to go find someone better. And then I…um, I was gone for a while, and Mickey was sort of the one who brought me home, and that’s when everyone else found out, and they couldn’t believe it. Carl thought we were making it up for months.”

“Lip and Mickey don’t get along?” Doug asks. He knows it’s irrational, but he feels a little bristly about that.

Ian tips his head. “They don’t _not_ get along. It’s just…” He huffs. “Lip’s always been the smartest person any of us know, and he can be a real dick about it sometimes. And Mickey used to be kind of a dick about pretty much everything, so sometimes they just rub each other the wrong way.” He smiles fondly. “None of them knew Mickey, you know? Not the real Mickey. But now that they do, it’s better. Fiona hugs him every time she sees him.” That doesn’t get a reaction from Doug or Abby, so Ian adds, “That’s a huge thing. For both of them, actually.”

“So Lip doesn’t tell you to find someone better anymore?” Abby checks.

Ian shakes his head. “There’s no one better than Mickey. It took us a while, but we all get that now.”

Mickey comes back into the backyard then, so Doug can’t push to find out what Ian means by that. Sounds like Ian and Mickey had a falling out, and Doug remembers Mickey’s despondence when he first started his parole. Doug’s willing to bet that’s related. They all watch Mickey stop to talk to Mandy. They look like they’re arguing, but they’re both laughing a little. Then she leans closer and says something softer, and Mickey looks away, talking out of the side of his mouth.

“I’m glad he has you,” Doug says. Something flashes over Ian’s face—it looks like regret, for a second—but it goes away quickly and he shrugs.

“I’m the lucky one,” he says simply. Mickey’s making his way over to them, everyone along the way stopping him to talk. Yevgeny excitedly hands Mickey a burnt hotdog and Mickey gives him high-five. He looks up at Ian and pulls a face. Ian watches him with such open fondness and love Doug almost feels like he should look away. Mickey finally makes it to Ian’s side, mouth full of his food, and he slips an arm around Ian’s waist and continues eating one-handed. He glances quickly at Doug for a second when he does it, almost like he’s afraid Doug’s going to say something.

“You guys talking about me?” Mickey asks with his mouth full.

“Yeah,” Ian says. He reaches over and brushes a few crumbs off Mickey’s chin. “We’re talking about how disgusting you are.”

Mickey shrugs blithely. “Maybe prison oughta bring in manners classes, huh?”

“You wouldn’t have gone even if they did,” Ian points out with a laugh.

“Got that fucking right. When’m I gonna care about manners?”

“When I take you on a fancy date,” Ian says.

“Fucking Sizzler’s doesn’t give a shit if I have table manners.”

The two of them laugh in a way that means it’s an inside joke. Doug can’t help but stare at them. In the year he’s known Mickey, he’s never seen his face so relaxed and open. Doug never stays long when he pops in for random testing at Mickey’s house, so this is the longest he’s seen Mickey outside of his office. It’s fascinating.

“Whatcha think, Hawkins?” Mickey asks, stuffing the rest of his hotdog in his mouth. Ian wasn’t kidding about Mickey being disgusting. He’s chewing with his mouth wide open, and it’s not a quiet affair. He’s got mustard on the corner of his mouth and all over his fingers, mixed in with dirt and oil from working on the car. It doesn’t deter him from licking those fingers clean. “’m I gonna make it another year?”

Doug looks around at the people, all gathered to show Mickey their support. Yevgeny and the twin girls are playing tag, with occasional refereeing by the tall guy Ian pointed out as Kev. Mickey’s smiling, here under the bright August sun, and the smile reaches all the way up to make the corners of his eyes crinkle. He’s twenty-four years old, and on paper, he doesn’t have much going for him. He’s a high-school dropout with few legal, marketable skills. He’s a convicted felon from an abusive home. He was probably an alcoholic by the time he was fifteen. He’s been written off his entire life as a lost cause.

A year ago, Doug was one of those people writing him off. It sounds like a lot of the people gathered at this party wrote him off, too, at some point or another. But right now, Doug’s looking at a young man with a strong family support system and a boyfriend who loves him. He has a kid who adores him and even an ex-wife who wants to keep him around. He’s smart and capable. He wants to turn his life around and he’s working so hard to do it.

Doug smiles at him, heart full to bursting with the pride of watching Mickey grow over the past year. “Mickey, I think you’re going to make it a lot longer than a year,” he says. Mickey had just meant on parole, and Doug knows it. But he’s serious. Doug would be one of the first to be incredulous about it, but Mickey Milkovich has a bright future. If nothing else, he’s going to have a happy family life; Ian’s nestling into his side and seems pretty determined to make sure that’s true.

Mickey swallows hard and gives Doug a little half-smile. He’s catching what Doug means. Doug knows people having faith in him is new for Mickey. But he thinks Mickey should get used to it, because it’s going to happen a lot more from now on.

 

It’s past eight when Doug gets a call from Lewisham. Doug groans a little when he sees the caller ID. “Don’t answer it,” Abby says without looking up from her book.

“I have to,” Doug reminds her. “Hawkins.”

“Hawkins, I got news about Milkovich.”

Doug sits up straighter. “Mickey?” He doesn’t know why Lewisham would know something he doesn’t. Unless it’s something bad. His heart starts pounding. Abby puts her book down and leans closer.

“No, Terry,” Lewisham says. “Sorry, I forgot you got the whole roster. Terry’s dead.”

Doug feels his eyes bug out a little. “Dead? What the hell happened?”

“Mickey?” Abby whisper-shrieks.

“Terry,” Doug mouths. She puts a hand over her heart and sighs, relieved.

Lewisham huffs. “Stabbed in prison. Fitting.”

“Yeah,” Doug mutters. “Gang thing?”

“Not sure yet. Guards think it might’ve been a hit.” He hesitates. “PD wants to talk to your guy.”

“You just said he’s dead,” Doug says, confused.

“No, I mean the other one. The kid.”

“What do they want with Mickey?” Doug asks, feeling his hackles rising. Mickey cannot handle cops. They make him sweaty and twitchy. Sweatier and twitchier than normal, anyway.

“Guess they think he put the hit on his old man.”

Doug scoffs. “Mickey did not do that. He wouldn’t risk getting caught.”

Lewisham sounds like he’d be shrugging if Doug could see him. “I don’t know. They said they want him.”

“Let me tell him first,” Doug says. “Kid’s got a history with cops.”

“Uh yeah, that’s how we got him,” Lewisham points out.

Doug doesn’t bother explaining. He just shakes his head, even though Lewisham can’t see. “I’m telling you right now, Mickey didn’t have anything to do with this. He’s a good kid, Lewisham.”

“Well, call him and hold his hand through it, I don’t give a shit,” Lewisham says. Doug rolls his eyes. “He gonna need a random test after finding out about his old man?”

Doug sighs. “I don’t know. He and his father weren’t exactly good friends.”

“Yeah, well, that can be worse sometimes,” Lewisham points out. “Do what you gotta do.”

“Thanks, Lewisham,” Doug says before he hangs up. He blows out a long breath and turns to Abby. “This is not going to be a fun phone call.”

“They think Mickey killed his dad?” Abby asks.

“Think he put a hit on him,” Doug confirms. “He was still in prison when he got stabbed.”

Abby pulls a face. “Mickey wouldn’t do that.” She tips her head. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t believe he’d kill his dad. I do believe that, actually. But I don’t believe he’d put a hit on someone and risk going back to prison.” She shakes her head. “That boy loves his family. He’s not leaving them for anything.”

“Exactly,” Doug says. “Look at him with Yev and tell me he’d ever willingly leave that kid.”

“Look at him with Ian,” Abby adds.

Dough sighs again. “At least they’ll be able to help him get through this.”

Abby puts her hand on his shoulder while he calls Mickey. The call does not go well. Mickey can’t even seem to understand what Doug’s saying, but comes back online just as Doug’s getting ready to tell Ian. He absolutely does not want to talk to the police, but Doug can’t see a way to get him out of it completely. The best he can do is not let them go to his house. Mickey says it’s for Yevgeny, but Doug knows better.

Doug stresses for days. He wants to give Mickey space, but he just knows Mickey isn’t handling it well. He has to trust that Ian will take care of Mickey. But then he shows up at the police station to be there for Mickey, and Mickey’s all beat to hell. He won’t talk about it, and he’s clutching onto Ian for dear life. When he mentions his brothers did it to him, Doug wants to demand to know why he was even hanging around them. But it’s when Mickey mentions the guard that Doug really starts seeing red.

Doug has three children. He has four grandchildren and another on the way. He knows this feeling in his chest. He wants to find that guard. Mickey doesn’t seem to want to talk about it; he has a point about there being a pretty small chance anything will happen to the guy. But Doug can’t stand the idea of just letting it slide without even trying to do anything.

When Mickey shows up for his next check-in, he’s got a mulish look on his face from the get-go. Doug’s gotten out of practice with that sneer. He remembers now how much he hates it.

“I ain’t talking about it,” Mickey says challengingly, sitting down with his arms crossed over his chest. “You can’t make me.”

“I can’t,” Doug agrees. He doesn’t say anything else. Mickey narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“What is this, reverse psychology?” He scoffs.

“No,” Doug says evenly. “It’s me respecting your boundaries.”

Mickey looks unsure. “Why?”

Doug would laugh if that question didn’t make him sad. “Because you didn’t get to have anyone respecting your boundaries for a long time, Mickey. And I’d rather not be lumped in with that crowd.” Mickey doesn’t say anything to that. He uncrosses his arms, at least. He bites a fingernail. Doug raises his eyebrows. “But let’s talk about you meeting up with your brothers. Because I’m guessing that falls under my purview, huh?”

Mickey makes a face. “You think I know what the fuck purview means?”

“I think you’re pretty good at context clues and you can figure out what I mean either way.” Doug’s long past falling for Mickey’s _I’m dumb_ routine. The problem is, Mickey isn’t. He really thinks he isn’t smart.

Mickey sighs and crosses his arms again. “I didn’t do so good with Terry kicking it,” he admits quietly. “And I ran off, because that’s what I do,” he adds bitterly.

“So you ran to your brothers?”

“Nah, didn’t mean to. Just took off. Ran into them and they were having a wake. I didn’t really—I mean, I wasn’t making good decisions, okay? Not like I wasn’t thinking straight or whatever. I knew it was dumb as shit to go with them and I did it anyway. Iggy and Colin, no big deal. They didn’t care about me and Ian. But then my oldest two brothers showed up. They’ve always been more like Terry, so…” He shrugs and gestures at his face. “Wasn’t a happy reunion.”

Doug gives him a long stare. “Am I going to find something in your piss test?”

“No,” Mickey says. “I didn’t take any—” He stops and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, there won’t be anything in my piss.”

Doug snorts, but he can’t blame Mickey. For one thing, he’s known all along Mickey’s been drinking a bit, and for another, Mickey’s at the baby steps stage of dealing with emotional turmoil without substances. Terry’s death had to bring up some especially complicated feelings for him, and Doug’s not going to fault him for needing a little help to get through that. Even if it _did_ obviously turn out to be a bad choice. At least Mickey seems to realize that. And he didn’t do anything that means Doug can’t turn a blind eye.

“They cut you with something?” Doug asks sympathetically, jutting his chin at Mickey’s forehead.

“Fell down the stairs,” Mickey says. “Had a concussion to go with my hangover. Not the first time, but shit, I forgot how much it sucks.”

“I’m glad you’re alright, more or less,” Doug says, shaking his head a little.

“Better now,” Mickey says honestly. “And hey, Ian’s an EMT. He’s good at patching me up.”

“I’m sure you like him better than the prison doctor.” Okay, he said he’d respect Mickey’s boundaries. And he _will_. But he knows Mickey pretty well by now. That boundary is more out of Mickey’s knee-jerk reaction of not talking about his feelings than anything else.

Mickey, of course, notices Doug’s prodding and rolls his eyes. “That wasn’t very subtle.”

“Okay, sorry.” Doug holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ll back off.”

Mickey waits, but Doug doesn’t say anything else. He looks suspicious again. “You’re not gonna give me some speech about how he’s probably hurting someone else and I shouldn’t be protecting him?”

Doug does his best to keep his face neutral. He actually hadn’t even considered that card. He didn’t know if that would matter to Mickey. But from the way Mickey’s bringing it up, Doug can tell _Mickey’s_ put thought into that.

“You think it wasn’t just personal?” He asks. “He didn’t just hate you specifically?” He’d make a joke about Mickey having that affect on people, except Mickey always assumes everyone hates him right off the bat and Doug would like to change that.

“I mean, it was—” Mickey swallows. “Something about me, personally.” He rubs his hands down his thighs. Without looking at Doug, he says, “He was one of those big church dudes, you know? God hates fags and all that. He told me he was…” He shifts in his seat. “Said he was getting me ready for hell.”

Doug can’t exactly keep his face neutral through that. He blows out a breath. “Look, I get that you don’t want to talk about it or think about it. And I know you think there’s nothing we can do about it. But God, Mickey, I want to nail that guy.”

Mickey shrugs, head still down. “Not like I’m not used to taking a beating for being gay,” he says casually. “Any time I forget what it’s like, I can just go find my brothers and get it again, right?”

Doug knows Mickey feigns nonchalance when he’s feeling vulnerable, but the easy way he describes constant hate crimes and abuse infuriates Doug. He’s maddest at the fact that Mickey truly believed that was normal for most of his life.

“So you think he should be off the hook just ‘cause you’re used to it?” Doug asks.

“Why do you care?” Mickey snarls, getting aggressive like he hasn’t with Doug in a long time. In the middle of that anger, Doug can see the deep hurt in his core. “Don’t all you law enforcement assholes stick together?”

“I care what happens to you,” Doug says simply. “And I don’t like that so many people have gotten away with hurting you.”

Mickey takes a deep breath, blinking hard. “What could you do to him?”

Doug shrugs. “Best case scenario, he gets convicted for assault.”

Mickey snorts, but his jaw’s all tight. “’Kay, but realistically, though.”

Doug has to concede that’s highly unlikely. “An official reprimand, probably.”

Mickey scoffs. “So a fucking note?” He shakes his head. “Why should I put myself through talking about that shit for nothing?”

Doug nods. “Yeah, it seems like nothing. Doesn’t change what he did to you and it’s not any kind of justice. Best thing I can say for that is it gives the next guy some leverage. A guard who beats up on prisoners doesn’t just do it once, Mickey. You might’ve been the first, but you won’t be the last. If there’s a note in there, it establishes a pattern of behavior. So when the next guy he goes after complains, they have to shut up and listen, at least a little.”

“Who says the next guy’s gonna complain?” Mickey points out. “No one wants to fucking snitch. And I don’t have any fucking proof, anyway. Not like the fucking skinheads he let come after me when he was done are gonna side with me.”

Doug has to swallow down his anger over that. So the guy didn’t just beat Mickey up himself; he got other inmates in on it. “You’re right,” he says. “They won’t. And maybe we won’t find any evidence.” He shrugs. “I just don’t want him thinking he’s untouchable. And I’m assuming you’re not going to let Ian go after him.”

Mickey snorts. “Oh, if Ian could find out who he is, he’d do it.” There’s a tiny smile trying to break across his face at that thought. “But I ain’t letting Ian go down for that shit. Pretty stupid to risk getting locked up over my sorry ass.”

“I don’t think Ian thinks it’s stupid to risk anything for you,” Doug points out softly.

The smile grows a little on Mickey’s lips. “Yeah, maybe,” he says. He tamps down on the smile. “So I gotta make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Look out for him. ‘S my job.”

Doug bites down on his own smile at how absolutely lovesick Mickey is. Doug wonders how teenaged Mickey would’ve felt if he’d found out someday this would be the life he’d get to have. Doug’s sure teenaged Mickey wouldn’t have been able to fathom it. Mickey right now hardly can and he’s living it.

Doug sighs. “Alright,” he says. “It’s up to you, you know. I won’t go looking for his name or anything like that. You get to decide if anything happens.”

Mickey chews at his lip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Doug says. “It’s your call, Mickey.”

Mickey thinks that over. “I don’t want to do it,” he says flatly. “No.”

“Okay,” Doug says. He nods. “Come on, then. I gotta test your piss.”

Mickey’s contemplative for the rest of his check-in. He leaves without changing his mind. Doug doesn’t press him on it. But later that summer, Mickey calls him. “Jenkins,” he says quietly. “Dude’s name is Jenkins. Used to jump me in the hallway between my cell and the cafeteria and then he’d call the skinheads in to make it look like he was just breaking up a fight.”

Doug keeps his cool. He doesn’t tell Mickey he’s doing the right thing or that he’s going to help some other guys out. If Mickey changed his mind and is telling Doug, he already went through the mental math there. Doug just dutifully writes it all down.

“Can’t promise anything’s gonna come of it,” Doug reminds him warningly.

“Yeah, I know,” Mickey says. “But I guess that’s part of being a good person, right? Trying?” Doug can picture him shrugging. “Maybe you don’t actually fix shit, but you don’t just sit there and do nothing.”

Doug can’t even speak for a moment. “I’m really proud of you, Mickey,” he finally says.

Mickey huffs. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Just doing it for Ian.”

It’s not true. Not fully, anyway. Yes, Mickey likes to make Ian happy and proud. But Doug can tell Mickey’s finally starting to work on making himself proud, too.

 

“Alright, Mickey,” Doug says. He’s been emotional all day. He’s retiring in three months, so that’s part of it, but mostly it’s just Mickey. “I’m going to move your file from my open to closed cabinet.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a second. “Is that like an official thing or you just giving me more fucking metaphors?”

Doug laughs. “It’s mostly symbolic,” he admits. “But come on, this is a big deal!”

Mickey’s biting at his lips, but Doug can see the tears rising in his eyes. “I’m really done?”

“You’re done, Mickey.” Doug grins at him. “You did it. Your parole is over and your case is closed.”

Mickey puts his hands over his face. “So what do I do now?”

Doug shrugs, even though Mickey isn’t looking at him. “Whatever you want, really. You can quit your job, move out of state, drink as much as you want.”

“I like my job,” Mickey says, pulling his hands away. Doug helped him land a spot at a garage working on cars with one of Doug’s old Army buddies, Russell. Russ told Doug he’s never had someone who knew such unconventional stop-gaps to keep costs down, and it had taken a few weeks to get Mickey settled in and understanding he didn’t have to use duct-tape on everything. Mickey doesn’t mention moving out of state, because they both know he’s not going anywhere, and he doesn’t mention drinking because they also both know he’s been drinking this whole time but not nearly as much as he did before he ever went to prison. For what he’s used to, the amount he drinks now probably doesn’t even count as drinking.

“I’m glad,” Doug says.

They look at each other for a minute, neither speaking. “Um, thanks,” Mickey finally says awkwardly. “I…” He rubs his forehead. “I wrote this. For you. But don’t read it until I leave.”

He pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. It looks like garbage. Doug’s seen Mickey’s handwriting; he’s not confident he’ll even be able to read whatever Mickey wrote. Still, he’s touched. Mickey still has trouble putting his feelings into words, and maybe writing it down was easier.

“Okay,” Doug says, a little choked up. “Stay out of trouble, okay? I don’t want to see you ever again in this office.”

Mickey nods furiously, blinking hard. “Yeah. I told you, I ain’t fucking going back.”

“I know,” Doug says. “I trust you, son.”

That makes Mickey take a sharp breath. He probably hasn’t heard that very often. He nods again. “Alright,” he says awkwardly. “Well…”

“Go on,” Doug says. “Be free.”

Mickey laughs a little, but he’s losing out against his tears. He holds out his hand across Doug’s desk. Doug’s never seen him offer a hand to shake to anyone except Ian’s brothers at their wedding party. Doug’s crying now, too. He comes around the desk and gives Mickey a hug. Mickey clenches his fists in Doug’s shirt and takes a few shaky breaths.

“Okay,” Mickey says. “Ian’s probably going to call you,” he says. He rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. “Wants to throw me another fucking party.”

“I’ll be there,” Doug promises. “And Yev’s got that swim meet next week, right?”

“Thursday,” Mickey confirms. “You miss it and you’ll break his heart.”

“I assume that comes with a threat of violence?” Doug asks, eyebrows raised.

Mickey huffs. “We’ll see,” he says. “Depends on your attitude.”

Doug snorts and shoves him lightly. “Get out of my office, Milkovich.”

Mickey salutes him mockingly. He stops at the door. “Thanks, Doug,” he says softly. “You know. I, uh…I didn’t have a lot of people looking out for me. Growing up. I didn’t…I mean, no one really gave a shit about me. So I didn’t think you would, either, but you did. You—you cut me a break a bunch of fucking times, even if I didn’t deserve it. So. Thanks.” It’s the most emotional Doug’s ever heard him. And sure, he can’t look at Doug while he says it, but Doug knows how hard it is for Mickey to vocalize these kinds of things. He swallows hard.

“You did deserve it,” he corrects gently. “You always have. And you proved me right for believing in you. I’m so proud of you, Mickey.”

“Bye,” Mickey says, because hearing someone’s proud of him will always end a conversation for him. Maybe he lets Ian say it without bolting away, but certainly no one else. Doug’s not offended. He knows Mickey hears him and is absorbing it all. He gives Doug a last nod, and then he leaves.

Doug sits in his desk chair and lets out a long breath, wiping at his eyes. Mickey Milkovich successfully completed his parole. He’s a convicted felon and always will be, but he’s not under supervision anymore. He’s a regular citizen now. He has a good job, a good family, and he goes to therapy every week. He’s in a better headspace than a lot of people who never went though half of what he did.

Doug’s not sure he’s ever been prouder of anyone, even his own kids. It makes him a little guilty to think it, but he thinks they’d understand if they knew what Mickey’s had to overcome to get here. He pulls out the crumpled paper Mickey gave him and takes his time opening it up. He has to squint a bit at Mickey’s terrible handwriting.

_You owe me half whatever you won on that fucking bet if I made it through parole or not_.

Doug blinks. Then he starts laughing. Trust Mickey to make him think it would be something emotional and fake him out.

It’s signed _Mickey Milkovich_ in even sloppier handwriting than the rest of it. The entire note is barely legible and makes absolutely no sense without context. Doug frames it, and he hangs it on the wall right behind his desk so anyone who comes into his office can see it. It’ll do them all good, he thinks. Mickey Milkovich is the perfect example for everyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> Mickey's tattoo is spelled right because MICKEY KNOWS HOW TO SPELL IAN'S NAME. I'm never getting over that DISRESPECT.  
>   
> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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